The Waltzing Widow (15 page)
Lady Mary struggled. The man's arm pressed into her back like steel and he held her with apparent ease, arched and captive against his wide torso. Lady Mary twisted her head, wrenching her mouth momentarily free. Soft bristles slid over her cheek. “No..."
He recaptured her mouth, cutting her off in mid-cry. Her lips were still parted. The
comte
took instant advantage, pushing past her resistance like a knife through butter, pillaging her mouth. Lady Mary felt wavering on a swoon with that greedy and yet not entirely unpleasant stroking. Triggered memories of turbulent emotions, long-buried passions, stirred, and she was abruptly acquiescent under the deepened and prolonged kiss.
The hand was no longer imprisoning her chin. Instead her breast was warmly encompassed.
The shocking touch tore Lady Mary out of the seductive trance to which she had unwittingly fallen prey. She twisted and fought like a wild thing, and suddenly she was free. The warmth of the man was replaced by a cold slap of night air. She heard a muffled curse, the crack of bone on bone.
Dazed, she sat up. As she did so she realized that she had been lying prone on the stone bench, that her gown was disarranged. She pulled up her gown, which had been pulled off one shoulder, and stood up to shake the creases out of her skirt. It was then that she saw a figure staggering off through the hedges. “But who...?"
"It was the Comte l'Buc."
Lady Mary whirled on a gasp.
The Earl of Kenmare stood behind the bench. There was a grim set to his expression that was made starker by the moonlight. In his hand dangled a lace cap. Lady Mary's hands flew to her head, but her questing fingers discovered her hair bare of adornment. “I believe that cap to be mine,” she said inanely.
He came around the stone bench to give it to her.
Her hands were shaking so that she could not take hold of the cap, she discovered. “I ... I am sorry, my lord. But I seem quite incapable of helping myself,” Lady Mary said, holding out her hands in attestment. “Could ... could you possibly put it on for me?"
Without a word, Lord Kenmare stepped closer and reached up to settle the lace cap on her soft hair. The faintest scent of sandalwood surrounded her. Lady Mary was watching his face, when he suddenly glanced down and met her gaze. The pulse fluttered in her throat at what she saw in his eyes. She wanted desperately to look elsewhere, but she could not.
The earl slowly dropped his hands to her shoulders. Slowly, gently, he shook his head. “Foolish, idiotic woman, coming into the gardens without escort,” he murmured.
"How did you know?” she whispered.
The corner of Lord Kenmare's mouth quirked upward. “I, too, had designs on your virtue, my lady,” he said quietly. “But the
comte
was before me. I was never more enraged in my life to be so upstaged."
"And so you hit him,'’ Lady Mary said, recalling that peculiar sound of cracked bone. She gave a faint smile. “I thank you for your chivalric instincts, my lord.” He laughed and his hands tightened momentarily on her shoulders.
The beginning strains of a waltz came distinctly across the hedges and rosebeds. Lord Kenmare lifted his head to listen a few seconds, then glanced down at the lady with him. He stepped back from her so that he could make a low bow. “Pray, will the lady honor me?” he asked.
Lady Mary was enchanted by the suggestion. The roses drenched with moonlight, the handsome gentleman awaiting her answer, appealed to her sensitive and heightened emotions. She curtsied, and without a word went into his arms.
They danced in elegant splendor, alone in the moonlit garden. As they turned again and again, Lady Mary's gown stood out, brushing against the blooming roses until the delicate heady perfume filled the night air. The cool breeze of their movement brushed their faces, stirred their hair.
Lady Mary felt the warmth of his hand on hers, the strength of the arm that held her so near to him. Her eyes never strayed from his, nor did his gaze waver from her face. She had not a thought in her head, having given her soul away to the melody of the waltz that had entered her very blood.
When at last the waltz ended, Lord Kenmare did not immediately release her. There was something spellbinding in her wide eyes, perhaps the hint of a question, that held him. She swayed toward him and his arms of themselves gathered her closer. He reached up to touch her face. For several seconds they stayed thus, caught in a poignant, intimate moment that teetered on the brink of passion.
He ached to kiss her, to crush her to him and possess her. Lord Kenmare took a shuddering breath and gently set her from him. Lady Mary stared up at him, wondering at the earl's distracted air.
He looked distantly at the pretty cap that graced her soft hair. “Why the devil do you wear the silly things at all?” he said. Without another word, afraid of what he might betray to her, he walked off.
Lady Mary stood abandoned in the middle of the walkway. A fiery blush suffused her face. She pressed her palms against her hot cheeks.
Lady Mary never spoke of that evening to anyone. She did not need to, however. For days afterward, Abigail was full of exclamations over the Comte l'Buc's abrupt disappearance from her mother's circle of admirers.
"Say what you like, Mama, but I think it incredibly rude of a gentleman to pay assiduous court to a lady and then without explanation simply forget her existence!” She was affronted not so much by the
comte's
desertion as by his bad taste in losing interest in the pursuit of her attractive mother.
Lady Mary did not appear in the least put out. “My dear Abigail, what would you have me do?” she asked dryly. “If I had known how much you liked the
comte,
perhaps I would have looked upon him with a kindlier eye."
Abigail grimaced. “Pray, Mama! As though I would wish such a hypocrite for my stepfather! I was never in my life more shocked!"
"Indeed, Miss Abigail! Such manners are those of a ragdog,” Miss Steepleton said. She was quite prepared to believe any scurrilous tale told of the
comte.
His handsome features and black mustache had always reminded her of the dangerous heroes in the romantic novels to which she was addicted.
"Yes, we have had a singular escape indeed,” Lady Mary said. She directed her companions’ attention away from discussion of the
comte's
perfidy to the incredible tapestry before them. “Is it not stunning? I had no notion that such artistry could survive the centuries so perfectly intact."
The ladies were touring the galleries of the Chateau de Boloeil.
The visiting British, in unending pursuit of amusement, had been fascinated by distant glimpses of the huge and beautiful edifice of the chateau. Upon inquiry, the owner had graciously agreed to open a portion of his home to parties interested in seeing the inside of the sixteenth-century chateau, which was known as the “Belgian Versailles” for its 240 windows and extensive gardens.
That summer day, Lady Mary and Abigail, with their companion Miss Steepleton, had chosen to join such a group, and now lingered before one of the several original Arras and Tournai tapestries that decorated the chateau.
"Beautiful indeed, my lady,” Miss Steepleton said, nodding in true appreciation. She had brought her sketchbook with her and now she clutched it in hopeful anticipation. “My lady, should you mind it so very much if I remained a few moments to put my poor efforts to paper?"
"You are far too humble for your own good, Aggie,” Abigail said, shaking her head reprovingly at her former governess. “Your drawings put anyone else's efforts all to shame."
Miss Steepleton blushed, immensely pleased by the compliment. She thought that it was amazing how much good the sojourn in Brussels had done for Miss Abigail. The girl's once-thoughtless kindnesses had become more habitual to her and in Miss Steepleton's opinion greatly made up for the months that Abigail had been so completely under Viscountess Catlin's sway.
"Of course you may tarry, Agatha. You may catch up with us in the chapel,” Lady Mary said.
"Very well, my lady,” Miss Steepleton said, settling happily to her task.
Lady Mary and Abigail walked on slowly, now and again stopping to examine some new treasure that appeared to their eyes. Their slow progress eventually led them to the chapel, where they found Lady Cecily and her brother.
The chapel inspired reverence in the visitors. There was a pervasive sense of peace in the small room that had not been present elsewhere in any of the sumptuously furnished rooms that Lady Mary and Abigail had just finished passing through.
Lady Cecily was seated on one of the richly cushioned pews, fanning herself in a leisurely fashion. She beckoned to Lady Mary and Abigail when she saw them. They joined her, greeting her in the hushed tones that their surroundings seemed to demand.
Lady Mary glanced toward the earl, whose back was toward them as he concentrated on something before him. “Whatever is his lordship doing?” she asked quietly.
"I have persuaded Robert to take a brass rubbing for me,” Lady Cecily said, the laughter in her brown eyes belying the completely sober tone in which she uttered the explanation.
Abigail giggled, but at once clapped a hand over her mouth when the sound of her merriment echoed in the vaults above their heads. When the echoes had ceased, she removed her hand from her mouth. “I am most sorry,” she whispered in contrite apology.
"Never mind, my dear,'’ Lady Mary said. “I am certain that through the ages these walls have embraced laughter and tears with equal serenity."
"How very true, my lady."
Lady Mary turned to find that the earl had completed his task and joined them. Her eyes danced as she met his gaze. “My lord, I understand that you have been taking a rubbing. I should like to see it, if I may."
"Yes, Robert, and so should I,” Lady Cecily said. She gave a playful grin as she slanted a glance up at his face. “I hope that it is properly done, or I shall be resigned to the necessity of requesting a second try at it.''
Lord Kenmare held up the sheet, upon which had been blacked the image of a brass altarpiece. “As you can see, Cecily, I have been quite proficient at the unfamiliar task,” he said. Lady Cecily laughingly agreed to it and thanked him for indulging her wish for the rubbing.
A small group of individuals entered the chapel, among them being Miss Steepleton. She saw the rest of her party immediately and came over to join them. “I am done with my sketching, Lady Mary,” she said.
"And I am finished with any more brass rubbings for the day. In light of this, I offer the suggestion that we exit this fine chateau and get on to our picnic luncheon,'’ Lord Kenmare said. The ladies agreed that it was a fine suggestion indeed, and the company spent considerably less time in leaving the Chateau de Boloeil than they had in traipsing through it.
Once outside in the warm June afternoon, Lord Kenmare handed his sister and Lady Mary into the waiting landau before helping Abigail to mount her horse. Then he swung up onto his gelding and, with Abigail cantering beside him, set the pace for the carriage driver.
Their destination was a high knoll from which the countryside could be seen for miles around. Lady Mary stepped out of the landau and crossed the grass to a better vantage point. She heard the clop of hooves behind her and turned her head. The earl had walked over to join her, holding his reins in his hand. Lady Mary smiled in greeting and then turned back to the view before them. As far as the eye could see was field upon field of corn, rippling and waving with the breeze. Beyond were the forested hills, which she knew sheltered rushing streams and small villages and noble chateaus cousin to the one they had just left. “It is a beautiful country, is it not?” she asked.
"Quite beautiful,” agreed the earl.
The breeze freshened and pulled at her straw bonnet. Lady Mary caught hold of the brim, wondering as she did so whether his lordship had taken note that she was not wearing a matron's cap beneath it. She had put away all of her caps and not worn a single one since the night that he had so bluntly made known his dislike of them.
Lady Mary had received several compliments on the improvement in her dress, though none had been so mannerless as to actually mention the disappearance of her caps. None but her children, she amended with a wry smile. Abigail and William had both teased her mercilessly, her son going so far as to insist that she had broken free of an imprisoning chrysalis and was at last trying her wings. “Now you cannot sit with the dowagers and matrons, for they shall be far too envious of you to allow it,” William had said with great satisfaction.
But Lord Kenmare, the author of her freedom from the stuffy matrons’ circle, had not by word or gesture ever alluded to her capless state. It was really quite provoking, she decided.
The earl's expression was frowning and distant as he surveyed the countryside. Lady Mary wondered at it, for she saw nothing untoward in the bucolic scene before them. “My lord? What is it?” she asked.
Lord Kenmare glanced at her. “I was but thinking. The frontier and France are not so far distant from this point."
With Lady Mary's understanding of his meaning, a haze seemed to cross the face of the sun. She shivered. At once his lordship offered his arm to her, saying that they should return to the others. Their party had chosen a good patch of ground upon which to set out a picnic luncheon, both sunny and yet sheltered from the quickening wind by the tall trees that bordered the small meadow. A cloth had already been laid out with a small feast of fried chicken, tender
marcassin,
tomatoes stuffed with small sweet North Sea shrimp, various cheeses, bread and butter, and grapes. Bottles of wine stood waiting to be opened.
Lady Mary's and his lordship's return was greeted with enthusiasm by Abigail. “My lord, pray tether your horse at once and come to join us, for Lady Cecily promises us that we do not eat until you have seen what she has had prepared,'’ she said.
Lord Kenmare raised his brows. He directed an inquiring look at his sister, who was seated on a small chair that had been toted in the landau along with the other picnic paraphernalia. “Cecily? What is this mystery?” he asked with mock sternness.
